At Jaang’s Warehouse Bar in Bangkok there are a dozen beers on tap—some IPAs, a couple of lagers, a weissbier, and often a stout. However, one of the most popular beers here is made with no malt and no hops.
Served cold in a wine glass, it’s a clear, sparkling drink of about 6 percent ABV. Its aroma is vaguely floral, fruity, and sugary; on the palate, however, it’s only lightly sweet, balanced by carbonation and subtle acidity. It’s refreshing in the tropical heat, and guests who prefer wine to beer often gravitate toward it.
That drink is sato—pronounced “sah-toe”—a traditional Thai beer made from sticky rice. Yet the way it’s made and served at Jaang’s is only one way among many.
There are two pillars of sato. First, it’s made from 100 percent sticky rice, which provides flavor as well as fermentables. Second, a mysterious mix of molds, yeasts, bacteria, and often herbs and spices—such as garlic, pepper, clove, or lemongrass—is what converts the rice’s starch into sugar and ferments it.
The word “mysterious” there is intentional. I’ll explain.
The traditional fermentation starter—which includes everything you need except sticky rice and water—is a funny little dried ball of starch called luk paeng. These balls are easier to find in rural areas than in cities, and locals often know who sells them. But if you ask 10 different sato brewers what’s in their luk paeng, you’ll likely get 10 different answers.
Mold and yeast? Sure. But which ones? Those who’ve done some homework can name a few, but they can’t be sure. Some will mention bacteria, such as Lactobacillus or Pediococcus. Others will argue that there should be no bacteria—or, at least, that sato shouldn’t be sour. Finally, that optional list of herbs and spices can be all over the place. Dried chile pepper? Galangal? Sure, why not?
Occasionally, Thai researchers will collect a bunch of luk paeng balls from around the countryside and put them under a microscope. One such study in 2023 found that the microbes, like the spices, were all over the place. In total, from 10 different sources of luk paeng, they isolated 68 different yeast cultures and 32 different molds, plus various bacteria. No two sources were remotely identical.
That’s why I say sato is mysterious. Short of having a microscope handy and knowing how to identify microbial isolates, nobody in Thailand really knows what’s in their luk paeng.
Rice Beer, in Context
Japanese sake may be the most famous and refined example of them, but there are rice “wines” all over Asia. (Brewers know: If it’s fermented from grain, we call it beer.) China has mijiu and Korea has makgeolli). They’re not as well known, but India and the Philippines also have many different rice beers with names that vary by region or island.
If those are cousins, sato also has siblings in Southeast Asia. Sato’s heartland is Isan, the name for northeastern Thailand, home to many of the country’s spiciest and tastiest dishes. Most Isan people are of Lao ethnicity; folk fermentations never stop at national borders, even when that border is the Mekong River. The Laotian version is lao-lao, the Vietnamese one is ru’o’u c̀ân—to me it sounds like “zoo-kun,” but really fast—while in Cambodia it’s sra peang or sra sor. Foreigners sometimes call them “jar wines” because a traditional way to drink them is via long straws sticking out of ceramic pots.
More so than its siblings, sato appears poised for a phase of renaissance and refinement. Bars and restaurants are taking an interest, even as Thailand’s upstart craft brewers are applying their mad-scientist brains to a traditional drink—breaking it down, rebuilding—and the results are intriguing.
The Traditional Approach
Before we get to the craft experiments, let’s consider the usual way sato is made—a method typically passed down within the family.
In the village of Tan Pao, east of Chiang Mai, is a tiny brewery called Surachae Phuenmueang; its name translates to Native Liquor. The couple who run it, Tawin and Yumatida Lanyos, are nicknamed Berm and Pew, respectively. (Virtually all Thai people use short nicknames.) When we arrive, Berm is bottling some finished sato while Pew is preparing to steam sticky rice for a new batch.
At this point, Pew and Berm have soaked that rice for at least six hours overnight, and they’ve rinsed the rice in a large bowl of water four times. Up it goes into the bamboo steamer basket, perched on a kettle of boiling water. After 20 minutes of steaming, it’s time for more rinsing. Then they strain the rice before sprinkling on the luk paeng—which they’ve pre-ground into a powder—and mixing it in thoroughly with a spoon.
Berm says they always buy their luk paeng from the same source in Lamphun, south of Chiang Mai—because when you find a source for luk paeng that makes good sato, you stick with it. Among other things, Berm says this luk paeng includes a blend of 32 different herbs and spices, including ginger, galangal, and lemongrass. “All things you would find in the kitchen,” he says, according to my Thai friend who’s translating.
Once they’ve mixed in the luk paeng, the rice goes into the clean, plastic container where all the conversion and fermentation will happen, loosely covered, at ambient temperature—here, about 82°F (28°C). They only add water after the first seven days of conversion. Atop roughly six liters of syrupy rice-goo, they’ll add enough water to make about 20 liters of total volume.
Adding water kicks off the fermentation stage—two weeks, with the first being the most active. Then they’ll strain it through a double layer of fine cloth to filter out the rice solids. From there, they “cold crash” for another week or so before bottling.
Berm says their finished sato is about 12 percent ABV. It’s still, not sparkling, and nearly clear. In the wine glass, it smells sugary and somewhat floral with pleasant stone-fruit esters; its nutty-umami notes are subtle compared to sake. On the palate, it’s sweet yet balanced by slight acidity and mellow alcoholic warmth. It has a wine-like viscosity, giving it a familiar weight on the tongue.
If you visit Chiang Mai, you might find their bottled Khao Cheevit (or “Nine Lives”) sato in a few local shops, or at the brewery in Tan Pao. It costs about $1.36 per 325-millileter bottle, or a little more than $8 for a box of six.
Clockwise from top: A sticky-rice field near Chiang Mai, with Doi Suthep in the backdrop; Khao Cheevit sato, with balls of luk paeng; at Surachae Phuenmueang, Berm mixes powdered luk paeng into steamed sticky rice. Photos: Joe Stange.
A Homebrewer’s Approach
At Jaang’s Warehouse Bar in Bangkok, the family sato-making method is based on the traditional one, but with a twist on the service end.
Bar owner Chyanat Kijtiwetchakul (nickname: Chang) is a homebrewer who prefers to focus on IPA and stout. Born in Bangkok, he only made his first batch of sato during the pandemic—a failure, he thought, until rediscovering it a year later and deciding it was tasty. His son Rujiphas (nickname: Book) led the sato-brewing until he left for university, then Chang’s wife Su took over.
Much of their process is like Berm’s and Pew’s. They soak the rice for at least four hours, rinse it thoroughly, steam it for 20 minutes—all sato brewers seem to agree on that—and then mix in their ground-up luk paeng.
Chang orders their luk paeng online from a seller in Isan, about 300 miles northeast of Bangkok. For 20 balls it costs about $5.50. Su says they add one ball per two kilos of rice (going by its dry, pre-cooked weight). After a week of conversion, they add one liter of water per kilo of rice, and fermentation commences—all at ambient temperature—around 86°F (30°C). After a few weeks, they strain and chill the sato for several more—they like the aroma and taste better that way. “Fresh sato is not good,” Chang says.
To serve it, Chang does what any other modern homebrewer would do: He racks it into corny kegs and force-carbonates it. What he serves customers is clear, cold, and sparkling. At the Warehouse Bar, one of the sato’s biggest fans is a Japanese customer who says it tastes like a high-end sake. “He says it would cost 500 baht in Japan,” Chang says. That would be about $14 a glass.
A Craft Brewer’s Approach
For foreign visitors, it’s not easy to find sato for sale in Thailand. Cheap, sweetened brands are sometimes available in corner shops, if you know where to look. On the other hand, lao khao—a rice whiskey distilled from sato—is omnipresent. A 625-liter bottle costs $2 at 7-Eleven stores, which are everywhere. Thus, the vast majority of sato brewed in Thailand is specifically for distillation.
However, it’s becoming more common to spot the occasional sato on tap at craft-beer bars or on bottle lists at terroir-driven restaurants. Sometimes they’re traditional, while others feature creative twists such as mango, hibiscus, or even hops. Sour fruited satos are a thing, and the drink works well as a platform for other flavors.
One small brewery applying the tinkerer’s mindset is Devanom, in Nonthaburi, north of Bangkok. Brothers Nattachai and Teerapat Ungsriwong—nicknamed Ob and Art, respectively—were making beer and mead at home before they founded Devanom in 2014. Their sato project began in earnest a few years ago; Ob says that it represents only about 5 percent of what they sell, but also that it’s growing quickly. (Their meads, meanwhile—such as the lushly juicy, dark-magenta Red Roselle—are more popular.)
The way Ob and Art see it, they’re brewing sato in a way that’s traditional but adjusted to make a consistent product. They source their sticky rice from Chiang Rai and prepare it with the usual method—rinsing, soaking, and steaming. (It should be “cooked, but not too moist, not too soft,” Ob says.) They spread it flat to cool to about 77°F (25°C) before mixing in their starter culture.
Here’s where things diverge: That starter culture isn’t luk paeng, which they view as unpredictable. Instead, they mix in a pure culture of a mold—Amylomyces rouxii, which is often found in luk paeng as well as other traditional fermentation starters in parts of China and Southeast Asia. In contrast, the starters of East Asia—such as the koji used to make Japanese sake—rely on Aspergillus oryzae.
While studies have found Aspergillus in many luk paeng samples, Ob and Art view the Amylomyces as a way for sato to differentiate itself from sake. For one thing, Ob says, the koji mold has more protease enzymes that create more amino acids, which contribute to sake’s umami character. “It’s a natural MSG,” he says—but sato shouldn’t necessarily have that, or as much of it. Amylomyces also likes warmer temperatures, and it’s primed to break starches down into sugars in short order. “It has a lot of amylase inside, and it can grow in the Thai climate,” Ob says.
Another thing about the climate: Bacteria love it here. While luk paeng balls often include bacteria, Ob and Art don’t see that as ideal. “Sato is very easy to get sour,” Ob says, especially without hops to curb acidification. “It’s very humid and hot, so the bacteria are everywhere. … I saw many friends doing it [with luk paeng], and the quality is not good.”
It takes about three days for the Amylomyces to work its conversion magic at ambient temperature—here, often around 88°F (31°C)—creating a thick, sweet syrup that measures about 36° Brix (i.e., 36 percent sugar). Then it’s ready for water. At Devanom they typically add two liters of water per one kilo of rice, going by pre-cooked weight; they adjust that amount depending on the final strength they want. At this point, its “starting” gravity might range from 1.052 to 1.074, Ob says, depending on how much water they add—but the mold will keep converting starches even during fermentation, so that’s not a reliable indicator of potential ABV. Then they pitch yeast.
Which yeast? Good question. They’ve yet to pick a favorite. They’ve used American, Belgian, and British ale strains, kveik, sake yeast, wild Saccharomyces isolated from luk paeng, Philly Sour (for a tart, fruited sato), and London III (for a dry-hopped sato). Those last two satos they also back-sweeten—using rice syrup made with the mold’s conversion—before pasteurizing and canning in-house.
Ob and Art say they pitch different yeast nearly every batch; they may eventually settle on a strain they like best. For now, they’re enjoying the experimentation—for example, trying different types of sticky rice, including saltier types from the south, and darker red and black varieties. Another project in the works: a mixed-culture sato, with Lacto and Brett, aging in white-wine barrels from Khao Yai. Because that sato is already upward of 12 percent ABV, Ob says, rampant souring is less of a concern.
Where Next, for Sato?
Until recently, sato was mostly a drink for working people in rural Thailand, especially at Songkran (Thai New Year) or other festivals. Now, however, more Thais are becoming aware of the tradition, and trendy bars and restaurants are taking an interest. “It’s like a rebirth,” says Art at Devanom, “and we’re trying to modernize it.”
At his Native Liquors workshop near Chiang Mai, Berm also enjoys his experiments. For example, he makes a lovely, dry, quenching mead dry-hopped with Mosaic, as well as umeshu-style spirits and a limoncello made from Thai limes. He’s also produced satos flavored with tea or flowers.
Yet Berm sounds skeptical of craft producers elsewhere trying to imitate sato. There is more to a drink than its process and ingredients. He learned how to make sato from his father, who learned it from his. “It’s legacy knowhow from the grandparents, passed down generations,” he says. “It’s our culture.”